The rain has held back for days and days, my God, in my arid heart. The horizon
is fiercely naked — not the thinnest cover of a soft cloud, not the
vaguest hint of a distant cool shower.
Send thy angry storm, dark with death, if it is thy wish, and with lashes of
lightning startle the sky from end to end.
But call back, my lord, call back this pervading silent heat, still and keen and
cruel, burning the heart with dire despair.
Let the cloud of grace bend low from
above like the
tearful look of the mother on the day of the father's wrath.